


Just a Tramp, Just a Trick

by betts



Series: Trick Verse [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha Hux, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bondage, Collars, Emperor Hux, Enemies to Worse Enemies to Hatelovers, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Bonding, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Jealousy, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega Kylo Ren, Piercings, Public Claiming, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Slavery, Tattoos, Tongue Piercings, Virgin Kylo Ren, the author is looking for someone to validate her parking in hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6433036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hux doesn’t have time for petty affairs like mating. He has a galaxy to lead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Tramp, Just a Trick

**Author's Note:**

> God no I would never write A/B/O *trips, hundreds of words of A/B/O fall out of pocket* no no look I can explain *more words scatter all over the ground, shovels them back into pockets* what are you *thousands of words form into series, potentially a trilogy* listen LISTEN--

“No,” Emperor Hux tells his advisor. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s a tradition,” she explains. Phasma has been a loyal counterpart to his reign, though at the moment she is the personification of the throbbing ache in his skull.

“It’s a good thing I’m the Emperor, then, and I get to choose in which traditions I engage,” Hux quips.

Phasma follows him around the palace, always a step behind, like a looming, platinum blonde shadow. “It will damage your reputation. We haven’t had an alpha as Emperor in--”

He spins on her and she stops, taken aback. “My secondary gender has nothing to do with my ability to lead.”

He continues walking. Phasma follows. “People see alphas as aggressive. If you don’t purchase a courtesan--”

He interrupts her again. “Slave. The word you’re looking for and that everyone avoids is _slave_.”

She huffs in consternation. “If you don’t buy a sex slave, the people will fear your barbarism.”

“Let them.”

“When the people doubt their leadership, they’re more inclined to listen to the whispers of the Resistan--”

He stops again, and this time she runs into him. “What did I say about using that word?”

“Doubt will spread,” she concludes. “Doubt leads to wavering loyalty. Wavering loyalty leads to open ears. Open ears hear whispers. Whispers lead to shouting. Shouting leads to rebellion. And war. And losing your reign entirely.”

Hux grinds his teeth together, his muscles tense enough that he has trouble breathing. It’s exactly this disposition that Phasma is advising he work against. By getting a _courtesan_. It’s absurd. Hux doesn’t have time for petty affairs like mating. He has a galaxy to lead.

“Fine,” he relents. “But for appearances only.”

***

One of the many perks of being Emperor is that he doesn’t have to venture to the Outer Rim to purchase his courtesan; traders from all over the galaxy are happy to appease him by presenting their finest stock in the comfort of his palace.

He sits on his throne, wasting an entire day while vermin parade their wares, one after another. Each omega shown to him smells like something that has bathed in the collected gunk on the bottom of shoes everywhere, and they look about as decent. They’re adorned with costume jewelry that glitters dully in the light of the palace, silks that are poorly woven and cheaply made. Their talents--ranging from singing and dancing to offering simply to provide oral sex on the spot--bore him.

He waves each of them past, at first letting them, from the kindness of his heart, begin their pitch, but by late afternoon, he has lost his patience and waves them past after a brief sniff of the air followed by an instinctive nose-wrinkle. Phasma ushers them away, one after another, until Hux has finally had enough.

“We only have one more,” Phasma tells him, checking her datapad. “Offered by a Hutt. Zorba.”

“I don’t do business with Hutts,” Hux reminds her, sneering. “Whatever he has come to offer is not worth my time or patience, and frankly I am appalled--” He is interrupted by a profound aroma invading him, so overcome that he falls back onto his throne. His jaw drops and he grips the armrests for purchase.

“Your Highness?” Phasma asks. “Are you all right? Do you need--”

“Bring in the Hutt’s wares,” he snaps.

***

When he enters, the slave’s aura is so strong that Hux is dizzy with it, aided further by the man’s shocking appearance. Unlike most omegas, the slave is large--broad shoulders, tall, well-muscled. His expanse of porcelain skin glistens with oil that only serves to mute his scent mildly. Two silver bars pierce his nipples, and an ornate black pattern spans the length of his arm. A thin loincloth covers his narrow hips and drags all the way to the ground, a collar around his neck and shackles on his wrists. His face, however--a long nose and shapely jaw, plush lips and large brown eyes--is gaunt and dulled. He blinks slowly, his pupils dilated and nearly collapsing his irises. He wavers on his feet, tendrils of lush black hair gracing his face.

“What have you done to him?” Hux asks the trader, forcing as much steadiness into his voice as he can manage, fighting the overwhelming presence of the slave. Unsurprisingly, the trader isn’t the Hutt in question, but a barterer sent on the Hutt’s behalf--an older man with a scoundrel’s smile and gray at his temples. “And who are you?”

“My name is Calrissian, your Highness. Lando Calrissian.” He gestures to the slave, chains in hand. “This courtesan is the rarest in the galaxy, an omega with Force sensitivity. Recently presented, a virgin. You will not find another like him.”

“So you’ve, what, drugged him?” Hux nearly spits the words. While he turns a blind eye to slavery--it’s good for the economy after all--petty criminals should not sully his palace with their forced druggings and their grime.

“He’s very powerful, sir. He needs to be sedated at all times to keep himself and everyone else safe. But you’ll enjoy it--it makes him pliant. Obedient.”

“You will not speak to me so candidly, trader. It is not for you to decide what I will enjoy.”

Calrissian grins. “But I see it on your face, your Highness. You like him. I can offer you a good deal.”

“If you held any honor, you would gift the slave as a symbol of your allegiance to the Order.”

“Man’s gotta make a living, your Highness, and Zorba doesn’t offer gifts.”

Hux scowls. He turns his attention to Phasma and whispers, “Find out what the slave is drugged with.” After a pause of reluctant consideration, he adds, “Give Calrissian whatever he wants.”

“But sir--”

“No questions. Prep the slave and set him up in the east wing.”

Phasma nods. “Yes, your Highness.”

As an afterthought, Hux amends, “And find out his name.”

***

He watches from his personal quarters as holovid forms of two guards throw the slave into his room. Hux had outfitted the slave’s quarters to a traditional courtesan environment--fine fabrics, throws, cushions, incense. The room includes a luxurious ‘fresher and a wide bath. Not that Hux is interested in any of this; it’s all for show anyway. His duty is to complete the mating ceremony and be seen entering the slave’s quarters a few times a week. Despite the...intoxicating presence of the slave, Hux has no interest in actually fucking him thereafter. He has fought his carnal urges his entire life; it is beneath him to succumb to them now just to appease the simple-minded, conservative views of his people.

A guard removes the slave’s cuffs but leashes his collar to a bedpost, slack so the slave can reach everything in the room but not leave it. He does not fight as the guards manhandle him, and when they exit, he curls onto the bed, hugging his his knees to his chest.

Hux’s door slides open and he hastily flips off the holovid. Phasma’s metallic boots clang against the tile as she enters.

“What have you found?” Hux asks her, setting his brandy on the desk and swirling it with two fingers at the base.

“The drug is, as Calrissian stated, a benign sedative and aphrodisiac. Primarily seen in the Outer Rim where the sex trade is more prevalent.”

“Are there any other effects? Will it wear off?”

Phasma clicks around her her datapad. “It appears to be a Force inhibitor as well, and will wear off within forty-eight hours.”

Hux scoffs. “Force inhibitor. Did you check his midichlorians while you were at it?”

“No, sir, would you like--”

“It was a joke.”

“Oh,” Phasma replies, and clicks another button on her datapad. “As you requested, the slave’s name is Kylo Ren, sir. All of his tests came back clear.”

“Is he really a virgin, or was that a gimmick?”

“Definitely a virgin, sir.”

Hux makes a noncommittal noise and continues sloshing his brandy in its glass, silently eager to turn the holovid back on.

She picks up on her cue to exit, but hesitates. “One more thing, your Highness. Would you like me to readminister the drug when it wears off? Calrissian was honest about everything else; it’s likely that Kylo Ren may be as dangerous as he eluded.”

“We’ll have to see that for ourselves. No drugging. Just because we deal with slave traders does not mean we stoop to their dishonorable tactics.” He dismisses her with a wave of his hand. “That will be all.”

“Of course, your Highness,” she replies with a bow, and leaves.

Hux flips the holovid back on. Kylo Ren sleeps peacefully.

***

Hux keeps a careful eye on the slave throughout the following day. Kylo Ren sleeps through most of it, only waking up to pace around his room slowly, shaking his head now and again in a possible attempt to clear it of the drug’s effects. Hux has seen many sex slaves in his life and encountered even more omegas, yet Kylo Ren’s gait speaks of neither. He walks broadly, even in his dazed state, like a warrior, his hands clenched into fists. Periodically he rattles his chain. At one point, at his most lucid, he pulls on it, furious, but gives up and falls to his knees in defeat.

Hux watches him closely, through his sleeping and waking hours. In the morning, Kylo Ren appears to kneel on the ground, head bowed, and sits still as stone for hours on end. Hux is fascinated, and grows even more so as the drugs appear to wear off over the next day. Kylo Ren’s energy strengthens enough to eat what he is given: a feast at Hux’s command to help replenish his system from the effects of the drug. Kylo Ren devours it like a starving man, and Hux wonders how long the Hutt deprived him of food. It couldn’t have been too long, Hux considers--his muscle tone speaks of being well-fed and thoroughly cared for. It just adds to the mystery of him.

Kylo Ren eats the same way he does everything: greedily and viciously, like an animal, more a primal omega of ancient times and not the sophisticated trophies people use them for today. It makes Hux wonder where Kylo Ren came from that he was not bred into his courtesan status; he isn’t even licensed. Several hints lead Hux to believe that perhaps Kylo Ren presented as an omega unexpectedly, late in life, and was thus banished.

The pieces fall together as the drug wears off and Kylo Ren proceeds to grow vengeful. As he tears at his collar with fumbling, shaking fingers, mostly naked body heaving and covered in sweat, Hux begins to get the impression that the slave’s origins are deeper than Calrissian let on.

Kylo Ren gives up, falling to the floor in a trembling, angry heap.

Hux decides to test his theory. He sends a message to Phasma: “Have a guard check on the slave. He appears distraught.”

“Yes, your Highness,” comes Phasma’s reply, and the comm switches off.

Moments later, a guard enters Kylo Ren’s quarters, blaster in hand. Kylo Ren is on his feet in an instant, stance wide, the muscles of his back taut. The guard raises the blaster in a preemptive measure but Kylo Ren makes a minute gesture with his hand and it flies across the room. He follows with a choking motion; the guard attempts to pry invisible fingers from his neck as he rises off the ground, kicking his feet uselessly.

With a small flick of his wrist, Kylo Ren cracks the guard’s neck to the side, and he crumples to the floor, lifeless.

Hux narrows his eyes and steeples his fingers under his chin. After a moment’s consideration, he turns on his comm and tells Phasma, “Drug the slave. Make sure you increase the Force inhibition and decrease the sedative and aphrodisiac.”

“But sir--” Phasma argues.

“Get it done,” Hux commands, and flips off the comm.

***

Hux lets Kylo Ren stew for another two days. In that short amount of time, he manages to upend his quarters--cushions ripped apart, bed gutted, glass lamps shattered, priceless works of art destroyed. Hux watches it all unfold with interest. When the slave reaches a point at which he begins to hurt himself in the process of damaging his environment, a shard of glass having sliced through his arm that he appears not to have noticed, Hux decides to put a stop to it.

“Relocate the slave to the dungeon. Clean up his quarters,” Hux tells Phasma. He switches the holovid feed to the dungeon, where five guards restrain the slave with his arms behind him, and walk him to a cell. Kylo Ren struggles against his bindings but doesn’t budge them. Hux can see his mouth move, not in words, but in feral growls and shouts.

The guards, with a significant amount of difficulty, leash Kylo Ren to the wall, neck, wrists, and ankles hooked to steel rings in the rockbed.

Hux turns off the holovid and drains his brandy.

***

He lets the echo of his booted footsteps announce his presence as he reaches the dungeon. The cells are empty but one, the use of the dungeon having waned when Hux declared execution a simpler method of managing his annoyances.

The slave waits in the last cell, arms dangling in shackles, hair hanging over his face and covering his slackened expression. Reddened indentations shine where he has struggled against his restraints. The moment Hux approaches him, he is again overwhelmed by the scent, by the dampened static crackling of the air around him. Thankfully, he is expecting it, so he composes himself accordingly as he stands on the safe side of the bars, glaring down at Kylo Ren with thinly veiled disdain.

“You are proving an inconvenience to me,” Hux says.

The slave’s voice comes out a low, even drag. “I would apologize, but…” He shakes the chains and slowly lifts his head. As before, his eyes are dilated, glassy. He blinks slowly, but his gaze is lucid.

In lieu of a response, Hux replies, “You killed a guard without touching him.”

Confusion flickers across Ren’s face. “I...when?”

“Hours ago, after destroying your quarters.”

Ren swallows hard, paling. “I don’t remember that. The drugs…”

“Appear to impede your higher mental faculties, presuming you have them at all.”

The glare returns. “Of course I do.”

“I’ve seen many an omega fall prey to their primal urges.”

“That’s a myth, as much as barbaric alphas turning into predators.”

A bright flame of fury creeps up Hux’s spine. “I am your Emperor and you will speak to me as such.”

Ren sneers, feral, and replies, “You are not my Emperor.”

“I am your _owner_ and you will treat me with respect or face the consequences, you ungrateful little--” Hux interrupts himself by taking in a quick, shaking breath and straightening his jacket.

Ren falls silent, body collapsing against the wall, exhausted. Hux is disgusted by it, the effects of the drugs, nausea bubbling in his stomach. He has no desire for a body without a brain, for an object over a person.

As if Ren has read his mind, he mutters, “You don’t know what it’s like.”

Hux’s curiosity gets the better of him. “Pardon?”

“Force inhibition for an omega. You may as well take my lungs.”

Hux scoffs. “Preposterous.”

“Really. I’d rather be blind and deaf than cut off from it.”

“The drugs are perfectly safe,” Hux begins, “and surely--”

“No. You don’t understand. Force-sensitive omegas work differently than Force-blind ones.”

“How?”

“We’re hypersensitive. That’s why there are so few of us--we need the Force to think, to feel, to live. You take it away and we become--”

“Animals,” Hux concludes.

Ren looks away, ashamed. Hux finds himself itching to unlock the cage and touch him, soothe him, hurt him, kill him. Anything to stop the coiling tension in his gut that intensifies every time he has the misfortune of being in the presence of the slave.

He fights the urge and says instead, “I am repairing your quarters. If you are as powerful as they say you are, you will fight the effects of the drugs for the sake of self-preservation.”

“What does that mean?”

“You kill another guard, I kill you.” With that, Hux about-faces and exits.

***

Ren is calmer as he is returned to his quarters and leashed once more to his bed. Hux watches on the holovid, enrapt by the way the slave’s hands twitch, his muscles tense, his entire body trembling with rage he cannot express. Hux is familiar with the feeling.

Ren sinks to the floor in what appears to be a praying position.

Hux is so entranced by the way Ren’s hands rest on his knees, his head bowed, that when Phasma barges into Hux’s office, he doesn’t have time to switch off the holovid. Now it would look suspicious, so he keeps it on, and bites out, “What do you want?”

“My apologies, your Highness,” Phasma begins. “Supreme Leader Snoke is demanding to know when the mating ceremony will be scheduled.”

A pit of dread wells in Hux’s stomach. “Why? What does this have to do with him? It’s a public relations issue.”

“The Hosnian system recently fell to the Resis--”

“Ah-ah,” Hux chastises.

“Was taken over by separatists. Supreme Leader Snoke needs the public focus to return to the First Order. He wants to broadcast a public claiming to help reinstate loyalty.”

Hux’s stomach drops. “He _what_?”

“He wants to broadcast--”

“Yes I heard you, but we haven’t done public claimings since…” He wracks his brain. “The Empire.”

Before Phasma can reply, movement in the corner of Hux’s vision catches his attention. On the slave’s holovid, a servant girl enters the room with a large bowl in her hands.

“Who is this?” Hux asks. “What’s happening?”

“She’s a servant. Kylo Ren requested her.”

He spins on Phasma. “He’s a slave! He can’t make requests!”

Phasma busies herself on her datapad and mutters, “He was very persuasive, your Highness.”

Hux returns his attention to the holovid. The servant girl is slim and young, hair bunched in a high bun. She isn’t wearing armor, and for a brief moment, when Ren glances at her, Hux thinks he plans to hurt her. Instead, though the image is striped and flickering, Ren relaxes upon seeing her. She kneels in front of him and lifts his chin, gently wiping the sweat from his brow with a cloth from the bowl. Their lips move but the lack of audio feed prohibits Hux from hearing their conversation.

Hux lets out a long breath through his nostrils when Ren doesn’t appear to let loose his homicidal instincts. For the first time in Hux’s life, the thought of having to execute someone for insolence does not sit well with him.

“The drugs,” he tells Phasma without looking over. “He’s building a tolerance to them, isn’t he?”

Phasma clears her throat. “It’s quite remarkable, yes.”

“Fuck,” Hux mutters, and slams off the holovid.

***

Hux puts off the ceremony for as long as he can, but each day the lure of Kylo Ren grows stronger. At night, Hux dreams of a soft mouth around his cock, thick black hair between his fingers, the intoxicating smell of his courtesan overtaking all his senses. Ren’s fingers grip Hux’s hips as he fucks into his slack mouth with abandon, knotting down his throat until Ren is suffocating, tears and drool running down his beautiful face. Sometimes Hux dreams of pulling at those damn nipple bars until Ren cries. Sometimes he dreams of sliding into a mess of slick, claiming Ren in private, on his own terms.

Each dream feels more real than the last, until one night Hux awakens in a cold sweat, harder than he’s ever been in his life. His dream had been lucid: beyond a public claiming, a marriage rite. Kylo Ren at his side, royally dressed, adorned in fine garments and jewels and looking more noble than Hux ever could.

The sickness that wells in Hux’s gut in response is either disgust or overwhelming euphoria. He throws his covers off and stumbles to his desk, where he flips on the slave’s holovid feed. Kylo Ren sleeps, tossing and turning, blankets and pillows scattered about him. His naked body glistens with sweat, and his cock lies hard against his stomach as he twists in the sheets.

Hux doesn’t give himself time for second-guessing. He storms out of his bedroom, through the palace, barefoot. Guards and patrol stop and stare, but no one has the courage to inquire, so he makes it to the opposite wing with no interruptions, a feat he never would have been able to accomplish in the light of day.

He grabs the badge from the guard by Ren’s door--who stands stock-still, terrified--and jams it against the panel. The door slides open and Hux drops the key outside for the guard to pick up. The door slides shut again. Hux is immediately, viscerally weakened by the heavy aroma of omega in the room, headier than it ever has been. Saliva fills his mouth, and his cock remains rigid, trapped against the elastic of his sleep pants.

Ren sits up in a panic, scrabbling to cover himself with a blanket, as if a sex slave would have any instinct toward modesty.

“What are you doing to me,” Hux spits out, a demand more than a question.

“What are you talking about?” Ren asks in return. He exhales rapid breaths. His skin is flushed rose and his hair mussed from sleep.

“The dreams.”

“The…” Ren begins, running a trembling hand through his hair. “You’re having them too?”

“You’re _making_ me have them. With the…” He makes a wavy hand gesture. “Force.”

Ren’s features train themselves into their usual angry glare. “Trust me, it’s not intentional.”

“If you can’t control yourself, I will find a way to cut the Force from you entirely.”

Faster than Hux can comprehend, Ren launches himself at Hux. Hux takes a single step backward and the leash stops Ren short, yanking him off balance. Ren is barely out of arm’s reach, crouched down and angry like a beast. His eyes are blown wide, for once not from drugs, and Hux fights against every atom in his body not to shove his cock in anywhere Ren couldn’t bite it off.

Hux keeps his back to the cool metal of the door, fists clenching in an attempt to maintain his composure.

“This isn’t what I’m like,” Ren grits through his teeth. “You make me like this. Your drugs--”

“My drugs have nothing to do with it. You’ve adapted to them. You’re immune to them.”

Ren’s expression softens in confusion. “So I’m…”

“A monster.”

“Only around you,” Ren spits back. “It’s your scent. It…” He trails off, biting down his words, until he manages more evenly, “I’ve never smelled anything like it.”

“Get used to it. If I can stave it off, surely you can find it in your miniscule forebrain to do the same. I refuse to mate with someone who lacks the ability to consent.”

Ren growls. “What does my consent matter to you? You slaughter millions every day without blinking an eye.”

“I don’t know about you, but where I come from, beastiality is frowned upon. If you don’t want me, you won’t have me.”

“The ceremony,” Ren begins, standing straight. His body continues to tremble and blush, erection waning, but his eyes show an hairswidth more complexity behind them than they had a moment ago. “What happens if I say no?”

“I will return you to the Hutt.”

“You won’t have me killed?”

“The Hutt might have you killed, but that isn’t my business.”

Ren considers it. “Why should I let you claim me?”

Hux puts his hands behind his back to keep himself from exposing any kind of nervous tic. He is a politician--he cannot let Ren know the intensity of his desire, his need for Ren to want him. “Because you are my property.”

A wave of disgust rolls over Ren’s features. He returns to his bed like a kicked dog and crawls back into his nest of covers.

Hux has never been dismissed like this before, and a fit of rage boils in him, but if he takes a single step closer, he won’t be able to control himself. He punches the latch on the door and leaves.

***

“Your Highness,” Phasma says the next day, “we need to induce heat in preparation for the ceremony.”

Hux hasn’t left his quarters all day. He remains in his sleep wear, drinking his third brandy before noon. He knows he has dark circles under his eyes, unable to tear his attention from the holovid feed, watching every movement Kylo Ren makes.

“Do it,” he replies without looking over, and drains his brandy.

***

Hours slip by unnoticed. The guard enters to induce Ren’s heat, but Ren won’t let him near. He throws the guard against the wall, not killing him but stunning him. He does it over and over like a sport, a small flick of his wrist sending the guard flying, his face trained to apathy as he sits on his bed, knees tucked to his chest.

The guard eventually gives up and limps out of the room.

Later, the girl from before enters. Ren angrily shouts something at her, but she remains unfazed, and makes her way to his bed, perching herself on it with the tray she’d brought in.

She takes his arm with gentle hands and injects him with a small medical gun. He winces, and Hux doesn’t miss the way he instinctively grips her thigh. A familiar gesture, intimate. Something akin to fury flares up in Hux, but he suppresses it by pouring himself another drink, taking a sip followed by a deep, long breath.

When he opens his eyes again, the girl swipes a stray lock of hair from Ren’s face, her hand lingering on his cheek, before taking her tray and leaving. If the girl's affectionate behavior continues, Hux decides, he will have her killed.

Ren curls onto his side and pulls a blanket over his head.

***

Hux doesn’t dare sleep that night. He remains fully conscious, and still he catches glimpses of what he would be dreaming, images branding his mind from afar, of Ren bent over for him, presenting himself to Hux for the taking. Begging for it, hole slick and ready. Enormous, muscled body tensed and inviting.

Against his better judgment, he turns on Ren’s holovid. Ren writhes on his sheets, one hand furiously pumping his cock and the other between his legs, four fingers deep inside himself. His body glistens with sweat, his mouth open in a silent scream. Hux doesn’t need their shared dreams to know exactly what Ren is saying, thinking, feeling. They’re tethered to one another and they haven’t even mated.

Hux watches until dawn breaks, but Ren never comes. He switches positions--on his knees, fucking backward on his hand; on his stomach, fucking into the mattress; against the jets of his bath, jaw slack and face open with pleasure that is never quite enough--but none of it quiets him. None of it can satisfy him the way Hux will have the opportunity to in a few hours.

A servant brings Hux his breakfast and formal attire. When she leaves, another servant--the girl who seems immune to Ren’s violent tendencies--enters Ren’s quarters with the same.

For the first time, her stoic visage crumbles at Ren’s appearance. He shakes too much to eat, so she sits on the bed and feeds him, hand cupped under a spoon, gentle and steady. Once breakfast is concluded, per tradition, she rubs a bit of charcoal under his eyes, dabs gloss onto his lips.

When it comes time for the body treatment, they both hesitate, seemingly shy or ashamed, but she opens the cap and pours oil onto her hand, then begins rubbing it over his chest, his arms, his legs. She adamantly avoids his cock, throbbing as hard as it has been since Ren’s heat began. With every movement, Ren’s body shifts toward her touch. He arches off the bed, face contorted in a mix of pleasure and torture and remorse.

She helps him dress in the royal garb he was provided--a flowing red tunic that drapes over his body like water, transparent enough to show the outline of his piercings, his tattoos. Hux isn’t even in the room, is holed up in his own quarters, yet still the small glowing image of Ren is unfathomable in its beauty.

The servant girl leans in and whispers something to Ren. He looks at her as she pulls away, solemn, and nods. She holds out a hand to touch him again, but thinks better of it and leaves.

***

Hux stands before the mirror in his ceremonial attire: jacket fitted with medals and ribbons of his various military accomplishments, crisp pants and shining shoes. His modest crown adorns his perfectly sculpted hair. A cape is draped over his shoulders. He is a single man, yet ruler of all.

He will not let a slave become his undoing.

Phasma meets him at the door and they march to the ceremonial chambers. She reminds him in detail how the ceremony commences--Hux must mate his courtesan in private. Upon completion of the knot, he will then present his new mate publicly and claim him for all to see. Phasma tells him to retain his composure during the ceremony--as if he needs reminding--and to thank the public for their continued loyalty and support once the claiming has been completed.

Without another word, she stops at the chamber and gives him a brusque, respectful nod. He returns it, then about-faces. The durasteel door is still between them, yet Hux can smell Ren from outside. The flashes of images thrown into his mind haven’t ceased. He can feel Ren’s agony, his need, as if they shared a single body.

Yet unlike Ren, Hux will not let it consume him.

He presses the entrance button with a steady hand. It slides open. Inside, Ren stands in the middle of the room awaiting him, infinitely more beautiful than his holovid image. His eyes are wide, filled with desire and unabashed fury, face flushed nearly as red as his tunic.

Ren is unchained, but a welt remains around the long pale line of his throat where the collar had been. As Hux takes a step into the room--a simple, sparsely furnished area, with a single throne in the middle--the door shuts behind him, and they are alone.

Ren’s eyes trail down Hux’s body. “You’re unarmed.” His voice is strained, barely kept from wavering.

“I am,” Hux agrees.

“I could kill you.”

“You could,” Hux says with a nod, “but there is something you need from me.”

Ren takes a step closer to Hux, grimacing as if the movement hadn’t been his intention. “Get this over with.”

Hux lifts his chin and says simply, “No.”

Ren growls and takes another step closer. A wave of his scent hits Hux like a freighter, but Hux does not let it show. “Why not?”

“I want you to beg.”

“I won’t do that.”

“Then I won’t touch you. I’ll leave you to wait out your cycle and then return you to Zorba.” The evenness of his tone belies the aching hunger continuing to well in him, like an electrical storm, every beat of Ren’s heart a bolt of lighting that slices into Hux, drawing him nearer.

Conflicted emotions flicker across Ren’s expressive face--fear, want, anger, resignation, then back to defiance. Hux can feel them echoed within him as he sees them. It is a disconcerting phenomenon, one he hopes is merely exacerbated by the heat and which will dissipate once the ceremony has ended.

“I would rather die than let you touch me,” Ren concludes.

“That can be arranged,” Hux replies, and steps toward the door.

He reaches all the way to the exit latch before Ren says, “Wait.” He pauses. Hux can feel Ren’s trepidation crackling through the air between them. “Stay.”

“I don’t take direct orders,” Hux says, turning back around. Ren’s stance has gone pliant, his shoulders drooped. He takes another step toward Hux, until Hux can smell the blood flowing underneath his flesh, the slick gathering between his legs. Without knowing how, Hux can feel everything Ren is feeling, the necessity, the hunger, the rage, and marvels at the discipline necessary to maintain his calm facade; if not a courtesan, Ren must have been trained as something else.

Ren drops to his knees, head bowed. “Please.”

“Please _what_ ,” Hux bites out. A tremble reaches the edge of his words, his resolve beginning to unravel.

“Please claim me, Emperor Hux.”

Hux reaches out, hesitant, knowing the second he touches Ren, there will be no turning back, that his composure will shatter, and everything from here forward will depend entirely on the heady thrum of his urges--primal and unwavering, no longer able to be ignored.

“ _Please_ ,” Ren whispers, a crack splitting the word.

Hux buries his hand in Ren’s hair, tangles the black curls in his fingers, and yanks backward. Ren gasps, letting out a shocked, needy moan at Hux’s touch. His pulse flutters against the reddened welt around his neck, throat bobbing as his mouth falls open.

A shiny metal ball in the middle of his tongue glints in the dim lighting. Hux unbuttons his trousers and pulls out his cock, which has been hard nearly as long as Ren’s has. He takes himself in his fist, pumping once, pleasure roiling through him given how rarely he touches himself. The tip is ruddy and leaking, and he rests it on Ren’s lower lip, leaving a trail of precome to dribble down his chin.

Ren opens his mouth wider in invitation, flicking his tongue to emphasize the allure of his stud. Hux bites the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning as he enters Ren’s mouth. The stud runs down the underside of his dick, sending a shiver up his body. His eyes flutter shut as he thrusts his cock down Ren’s throat in one movement; the resulting moan reverberates around him, and he pulls out an inch just to shove back in.

Ren grips Hux’s pants in his hands while Hux continues tugging at his hair. Tears well in the corner of Ren’s eyes and threaten to crest down his face. What few small items are scattered around begin to lift of their own accord, the static of Ren’s presence growing louder.

Hux can feel the stirrings of a knot beginning to form as he pounds into Ren’s face--a feeling he has not experienced in many years--so he pulls out, a trail of drool following in his wake. Ren looks up at him, eyes glistening, panting. There is still a chance for Hux to stop this, to put his dick away and spend the remaining ceremony at opposite sides of the room, not succumb to this inane madness of biology. But Ren’s eyes are pleading, empty of depth and filled with desire.

Just once, Hux thinks. For the sake of tradition. Then he’ll never have to touch the slave again.

Hux takes a seat on the throne and pats his thighs. Ren stands from his kneeling position and climbs onto his lap, long legs folding gracefully. Hux separates the slit in the back of his tunic, and lines his cock up with Ren’s hole, slick and open. Ren’s body trembles as he waits, poised for Hux to shove him downward, fill him up like he’s been needing since his heat began.

“You know what I want to hear,” Hux whispers.

All traces of disdain have fled Ren’s features, replaced entirely by blind want, animalistic urges winning out over his higher faculties. “Claim me. Mate me. Make me yours.”

Hux grips his hips and shoves Ren’s body downward, cock enveloped by Ren’s tight heat. He loses his battle with his vocal cords and lets out a reedy exhale, fucking into Ren with abandon. The images from before return in full, as lucid as the dreams had been--Kylo Ren crowned at his side, watching the future Starkiller Base wipe out planets en masse. Power. Glory. Freedom. Desires that Hux welcomes every minute of his life, but coming from Ren, they are hidden under murky motivations that Hux is unable to parse.

Ren rides him as Hux reaches up and grips his throat, squeezing and pulling him down for a violent kiss, his teeth sinking into Ren’s sweet glossed lip, the metal ball flicking against Hux’s tongue. His knot grows inside Ren slow and steady, pulling everything out of him, zeroing his focus into a single point of pleasure while Ren continues moaning like the whore he is and invading Hux’s mind with illusions of grandeur.

Ren wants blood and pain and sacrifice. He wants vengeance on something Hux can’t place. Underneath the rage, a darkness is buried--loneliness, abandonment, betrayal. Hux can see it as clearly as he sees it in himself. Hux’s knot grows bigger; they are bonded beyond the unity of their bodies, but in spirit too, a deeper longing that they both thirst for, the need to conquer and claim and _own_.

Ren takes his cock in hand and fists it in time with Hux’s thrusts. Hux twists his fingers into the hair at the back of Ren’s skull. He yanks it back again and nips at the thudding pulse of Ren’s throat, imagines sinking his teeth into it, eager and waiting to do it in front of billions of people who will all know: Emperor Hux owns this man, Kylo Ren. And no one else may have him.

He feels an echo of the thought thrown back at him, an open willingness of Ren to be owned by him, and it shoves Hux over the edge, knot throbbing against Ren’s walls and spreading him wide. The knot pops, filling Ren, come flooding him. Ren lets out a desperate cry and comes in his fist, crashing their mouths together again.

Ren catches his breath and rests their foreheads together.

“Yours,” he whispers.

***

The claiming itself is a grander affair, hours later. Hux, now clean, steps onto the balcony, awaited by thousands of his followers. Advisers, politicians, and guards line up on either side of him, and in the middle slouches Kylo Ren: collared once more, his wrists chained above his head. He is sullen now, closed off from Hux. His newfound absence in Hux’s mind is alarming, a raw wound etched into his consciousness.

Ren looks down, face blank. His hair is pulled into a bun, a few errant strands brushing the back of his pale neck.

The claiming is a solemn affair--the speeches have all been made, the introductions announced. All Hux has to do is bite.

But mating in the privacy of the ceremonial chamber and openly submitting to his alpha desires in front of everyone to see is another matter. Hux steps closer to Ren, for once not overtaken by his scent but calmed by it. Ren does not look up as Hux approaches, but Hux notices the rise and fall of his back with the quickness of his breaths. Otherwise he is as still as his meditations.

Unthinking, Hux rests a placating hand at the small of his back, rubbing his thumb in circles against the dense tulle of Ren’s tunic. Despite the presence of thousands, not a sound can be heard but for the gentle breeze and the swaying of trees in the distance.

Hux leans down and brushes his lips against Ren’s neck, eyes closed and pretending it’s just the two of them again. He parts his lips and bares his teeth, then sinks down into Ren’s flesh.

Ren’s only reaction is a small gasp followed by the rattle of his chain.

Hux hears rapid footsteps from behind. The whirring of a ship engine overhead. And finally, a woman’s voice, shouting, “Ben!”

He looks up just in time to see a silver hilt fly through the air as if pulled to Ren’s hand like a magnet. When he catches it, Ren shoves his thumb against a button and the hilt comes to life in the form of a bright blue laser. Hux has no time to process these events before letting go of Ren in shock and taking a stumbled step back.

Ren cuts through his chains with a simple twirl of his wrist.

Hux stares at him, wide-eyed and gaping. “What have you done?” he asks, the taste of Ren’s flesh still lingering on his tongue.

Around Hux, all is in chaos: people in beige tunics jump down onto the balcony from a lowered ship, glowing swords sliding in bright arcs for the whole galaxy to see. Hux watches as his advisers are slaughtered, his guards firing blasters. Both friend and foe fall, Phasma taking down the invaders one by one. The servant girl, the one who cared for Ren with such intimacy, the one who called the slave _Ben_ and whom Hux now fully intends to kill when this is all over, beheads a guard in one swift stroke before using her momentum to stab her saber into another.

Hux catches Ren’s eye. Ren, for the first time, smiles at him, something cruel and devious hidden behind his angelic innocence. Then he rushes into battle, sword held high, wild and merciless as he slays Hux’s constituency.

The battle is brief and bloody. Hux cowers, finding cover behind a pillar. His potential exits are all blocked by the fray. Every time he glances from behind his blockade, he sees Kylo Ren’s back. Blasters fire in Hux’s direction, but Ren somehow stops the beams mid-air from getting anywhere near, throwing them back with a roar.

The noise dulls as bodies continue to fall. Hux glances out to find Phasma unarmed, hands twisted behind her back and cuffed, being shoved into the palace by two sword-wielders. The rest, by Hux’s estimate, have died or returned to the ship, and no bodies are near enough for Hux to loot a blaster and defend himself. He watches as Kylo Ren sheathes his weapon, barking orders to his brethren. The servant girl approaches him, battered and breathless, but grinning up at him in victory. He does not match her enthusiasm, and gestures for her to return to the ship.

Once more, Hux and Kylo Ren are alone. Hux can again feel Ren in his head, the pounding of their hearts synchronised in their chests. Ren turns his attention to Hux, raising a hand. An invisible vice clamps onto Hux’s throat as he is lifted off the ground, levitating toward Ren.

Ren drops him and Hux falls to his knees, gasping for air. “Kylo Ren,” he croaks, not knowing what to say. Not knowing if his words would just make matters worse.

“My name...” Ren begins, sword igniting once more as he hovers the blade in front of Hux’s throat. Hux can feel the searing heat of it, the threat of it. “...is Ben Solo.”

Silence stretches between them, the pull of their bond heavy and tight. Ben hesitates.

“What are you waiting for?” Hux bites out. “Do it!”

When Ren makes no move to kill him, Hux adds, “I’ve seen it. In your mind. Your thirst for blood. For glory. I know that feeling; I’ve felt it my entire life.”

Ren shoves the blade an inch closer. Hux can feel the vibration of it against his skin, rattling into his teeth and scalding a burn above his collar bone. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know that you and I are the same.”

“I am _nothing_ like you,” Ren says through gritted teeth, tensing, but his hand remains perfectly still on the hilt of his saber.

“Then prove it,” Hux replies, as calmly as he can manage. “Kill me. Show the galaxy there is no difference between the Resistance and the Order. That the Jedi are willing to let spill the blood of innocents and broadcast the evidence of their valor to billions.”

“You are not innocent.”

“Yet I kneel before you unarmed, and still you wish to kill me.”

The wind whips Ren’s hair around his face, his tunic twisting around his body. His grip tightens on the hilt of his saber. The blue glow reflects in his eyes, and for the barest instant, Hux knows fear.

The light diminishes as the saber falls back into its hilt, replaced with what Ren likely thinks is mercy but what Hux knows to be weakness. Selfishness. The darkness he’d glimpsed earlier--he cannot kill Hux. He cannot live without his mate. 

“This isn’t over,” Ren says, lowering the deluminated saber to his side. “The Resistance will rise. The First Order will fall. And it will be my doing.”

Hux doesn’t dare speak. Without another word, Ren turns away and runs toward the waiting ship.

The reddened mark on the back of his neck seals itself into Hux’s memory.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, please consider [reblogging the photoset](http://kylomend.tumblr.com/post/142587937028/our-hunger-starts-to-make-us-sick-just-a-tramp).
> 
> Beta'd by the glorious [ship](http://www.shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com) and [b&e](http://www.bert-and-ernie-are-gay.tumblr.com).
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/betty_days).
> 
> Title from "We Don't Want Your Body" by Stars.


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